


In Between Those Words We Dare Not Say

by kookaburrito



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley being a drama queen basically, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Shower Sex, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Writing, confused feelings, dramatic confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kookaburrito/pseuds/kookaburrito
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have been mutually pining for the longest time. Instead of confessing, they find a way to let their emotions out by secretly writing down their feelings. But secrets tend to be discovered at the most inopportune moments.





	In Between Those Words We Dare Not Say

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from my fave MIKA's song "No Place in Heaven" which I find very fitting for these two.

The dinner at the Ritz has come and gone.  
Even though Aziraphale seemed to have loosened more around Crowley - his smile more relaxed, his gestures less restrained - on the whole, nothing has changed. 

Being the drama queen he is, Crowley expected grand gestures, confessions, maybe even a serenade with an harp. After all, they were officially on their side now - the side of humanity. Aziraphale has cut ties with Heaven, for good. He could no longer hold out the allegiance to the angels as an excuse. There was no wall to hide behind. So why is it then, Crowley asks himself every night, that everything is progressing so painfully slow?

Aziraphale indeed continued their relationship like nothing was going on. And now Crowley isn’t sure. Worst of all, it’s starting to affect his sleep, one of those human things that he loves so much. He would toss and turn in his bed all night long, while anxious thoughts pooled in his brain. And really, was there ever a hint of something going on? He doesn’t know. Was their banter ever a flirtation? Did Aziraphale ever give him a chance, a glimmer of hope? He can’t be sure. And this fact drives him absolutely mad. 

It’s the plants that suffer the most.

With each passing day, Crowley hopes for something more than stolen glances and suggestive sentences and their easy conversation, aching for more than their long walks and drunken evenings, more than those never-ending discussions about humans, angels, demons and the roots of good and evil. 

Sure, it was amazing to have a true ally in all of this humanity business they have started, and Crowley appreciated every second he could spend with his best friend on a still intact and blossoming Earth.

However, Crowley couldn’t deny that he wanted more - has been wanting more for a long time, and his desires have only escalated with the passing of time. Intrigued in the Garden of Eden, interested in Rome, smitten by the time Aziraphale so easily succumbed to their Arrangement. Aziraphale was so different from the other angels, and oh so interesting in how he reacted to the world around him, Crowley just couldn’t help himself. It was truly a torture and a blessing to have shared so much of history with the angel, to be given the gift of getting to know him little by little, and being surprised with each new fact he discovered, and coming to the solemn and calm realization that the word “love” fits his feelings very well.

Does Aziraphale feel it too?

At this point, Crowley thinks that it would have been far easier if Aziraphale would just flat out reject him. Tell him with an awkward smile that he’s _oh so flattered, my dear boy, but_ and break his heart, shatter it into pieces and let it start to heal, instead of playing with it and teasing it and letting him hope.

But Aziraphale never outright rejected him, not once. Sure, Crowley never asked him out bluntly, but he must have been obvious in his intentions. Wasn’t he? Crowley struggled to understand Aziraphale sometimes. He saw a hint of something in the angel’s eyes and the next moment it was gone. He saw hesitation and longing. Or maybe he just imagined it was there, because he desperately wanted that reciprocity? No matter what happened, Aziraphale was himself all of the time - cordial, sweet, old-fashioned. _Irresistible._

They go to picnics, they go to pubs, they go to exhibitions - enjoying every second in this newly human world, every second of the rest of their lives. 

And each time Crowley hesitates. Can he just reach out and take Aziraphale’s hand in his own? Or would that freak the angel out? Can he hug him goodbye? Can he just say those words that linger on his mind? But then, he’s too fumbly. He feels awkward. Humans have invented too many words, and even though he could use them to describe the slightest hue of feeling, Crowley is still lost. After all, which of these human words can properly convey the terrible ache of a six thousand year long wait? The agony of not knowing where you stand and the fear of another fall from grace?

Once, Aziraphale practically begs him to go to the opera together. They are both fully aware that Crowley doesn’t like the opera. They also know that Crowley will indulge Aziraphale’s every whim, the angel just has to pout or bat his eyelashes and suddenly Crowley is putting on a suit and in the next moment they are taking their best seats near the stage. Crowley doesn’t remember much of it, he uses the time to steal glances of Aziraphale’s giddy expressions and obvious excitement. He enjoys every second of it, mainly because Aziraphale lights up and smiles and feels so much. It reminds him of their visit to the Globe theatre for Hamlet, and that feels like something warm curling up in his chest.

After the opera, as per tradition, Crowley gives Aziraphale a lift to the bookshop. He specifically takes the long route and doesn’t go too fast on purpose, trying to slow down time, trying to steal as much of it to spend together, but soon enough they still end up parked outside the bookshop.

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale in the passenger seat. The angel is just beautiful under the soft glow of streetlights. It reminds him of a night just like this one some fifty years ago. Crowley’s heart is racing. Maybe tonight he might have more courage, more luck. 

He has slowed down after all.

“Would you like to, uhm, you know, if you don’t mind...” Crowley begins awkwardly, feeling himself a fool.

“What is it, my dear boy?” Aziraphale asks, looking at him intently.

“The night is young. We could go over at my place. We rarely go there,” Crowley shrugs, as if he doesn’t care even one bit where they could go, as if he’s just bored out of his mind, but the way his fingers tightly grip the steering wheel easily gives away his inner turmoil.

“Oh I would love to. Sometimes. But I suppose it’s already late tonight. Maybe next time?” Aziraphale glances at him nervously, unsure. The air between them is charged with tension, the angel must feel it too. And maybe he’s blushing a little, but Crowley cannot tell in the darkness. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my dear. I should get going. Mind how you go.”

Before Crowley can say anything, Aziraphale is already out of the car, making his way to the bookshop.

Crowley watches him go, taking in the movement of the white coat fluttering behind him like wings, until he sees Aziraphale disappear in the doorway.

Another lost chance, another misunderstanding.

Crowley stays in the car, the key stuck in the ignition. He can’t make himself leave just yet. 

What he does instead is pull out his phone. This has become sort of a ritual to him.  
He opens his drafts folder.  
There are seven hundred and sixty-five unsent messages.  
He begins typing.

_“When will this next time be, angel? Do you promise you will come? Can you promise anything to me? Aziraphale, I thought I knew torture, but what you give me is pure hell.”_

He knows the messages will remain unsent, not only because Aziraphale doesn’t even have a mobile phone, but mostly because these words ache inside of him, and he could never think of himself as brave enough to say them out loud. To confess his love unabashedly, with confidence and without backpedaling, without hiding, just laying his heart out for Aziraphale to take and do as he pleases. To beg and to pray and to want so shamelessly.

Each time he is compelled to write down another portion of frustration, Crowley can’t help but glance at the other messages. This time is no different.

There are all kinds of emotions hidden in those unpronounced words: anger, and desperation, and jealousy. Desire. Affection.

There is also love, in each one. 

It’s the messages he accumulated in the last five or so years, but they just amplify the thoughts that Crowley has been having for at least a thousand.

He glances over them, scrolling through the folder.

_“...Soft curls I wish I could touch...”_

_“Wish you were here, sleeping next to me.”_

_“I love making you happy. Love watching you eat.”_

_“...Am I still going too fast for you?”_

Crowley sighs. There is a particular one that brings back memories:

_“This is for you, my angel. It’s three hundred pages of flowers that will never wilt, never die away. Just like my feelings for you.”_

He remembers that day vividly. One of his boldest, most thoughtful gifts: a book with beautiful hand-painted illustrations of flowers. It was simply stunning, and the moment he laid eyes on it, Crowley just knew that he had to buy it for Aziraphale. Before he went into the bookshop, Crowley typed the words he wanted to say, knowing full well that without preparation he would mumble something intelligible and awkward. But then, Gabriel was there, and Crowley had to hide, and when the Archangel finally left, and Crowley managed to give Aziraphale the book, he did end up shoving it into the angel’s hands nonchalantly and mumbling something about finding this thing by accident. Aziraphale looked pleased, that much is true, but it didn’t go the way Crowley had wanted (he holds a grudge against Gabriel until this very day especially for this incident).

Crowley quickly scrolled down, willing himself to forget about that day, that gift, Aziraphale’s surprised shiny eyes when he saw the book.

There are more messages, hundreds of painful words.

_“Could just kill that brat for the way he leered at you...”_

_“Wonder what are you doing today, seems strange to call first...”_

_“Wish I could’ve taken your hand in mine tonight, but got too scared.”_

_“Of course I know your smell. How could I not? It’s driving me insane.”_

Crowley feels a dull ache at the next one. It echoes painfully in his chest:

_“Why can’t you just let me try? Why are you afraid? I see the way you look at me, I know that there is no one else. Maybe there were others before, but now we’re on our own side. Why can’t you just take this step with me?”_

Crowley’s mind wanders. Indeed, now there are those picnics and long drives, innumerable quantities. Aziraphale refuses to learn to drive, and insists on Crowley taking them everywhere. This particular time they got lost in the country, and it was Aziraphale who proposed looking for an inn to stay the night. Crowley took his eyes off the road to study the angel’s expression, but it was impenetrable. 

“We only have one room with a double bed,” said the clerk at the little bed and breakfast they found first, and that could’ve been pure demonic intervention, even though Crowley was too preoccupied to actually arrange such a thing. His heart jumped at the thought of them sharing a bed. But Aziraphale was already rushing to say, “Could you check again please?” and suddenly there was an overlooked room that _miraculously_ appeared to be vacant. Sitting alone in his dark, cold room, just a few walls away from his angel, he typed furiously that night, typing and retyping, and deleting, leaving that one single message in the end, feeling his heart break into pieces.

He scrolls down, faster, not wanting to linger on that terrible memory.

_“Invited you over again, but you refused, how many more times...”_

_“Wanted to kiss you right then and make you realize how much you mean to me...”_

At that one, Crowley takes a sharp breath and turns off his phone. It was meant to be therapeutic, and yes, sometimes it was, but right now it feels just like sticking another knife inside of his heart.

He takes another glance at the bookshop, and catches the moment the light switches off. Then he finally turns the key in the ignition.

Tonight, like every night before this one, Crowley will also go to sleep just on one side of his king-size bed, wishing it wouldn’t feel so cold.

* * *

A whole week passes after that night at the opera, and Crowley just can’t help himself.

Maybe it would have been wiser to sleep for another hundred years, to get these feelings out of his system, but deep down Crowley knows that the feelings aren’t going anywhere. And he misses being near Aziraphale, in whatever form he can be.

Aziraphale is still his best friend.

He buys an expensive bottle of wine, the kind they enjoyed once in Portugal, in secret hopes Aziraphale would remember that precious time they shared on the beach, the way they strolled and watched the sun set after another day of what essentially can be called canceling each other’s deeds out. Maybe he would recall that feeling of a freed up weekend, no demon or angel tasks ahead, and the knowledge that they could just be - could breathe in this city and enjoy it, like any two mortals. Maybe he would remember the delicious egg tarts that they shared, and the cream that got stuck in the corner of his mouth, that Crowley helped clean up, hands trembling a little. Maybe he would remember the way Crowley couldn’t look at the sunset for too long, stealing glances of Aziraphale instead, behind those eternal sunglasses of his.

When Crowley comes in with the bottle of wine, Aziraphale looks like someone who has been worried sick and hasn’t slept in days. His hair was disheveled, and there were dark circles under his eyes, he looked tired, old. But as soon as he saw Crowley, his features relax, he smiles and lets him in, fusses around him like he has truly missed him.

“Oh Crowley! What are you doing here, lurking on my porch, like some kind of demonic creature?” Aziraphale asks with a smile, obviously joking and delighted to see him. His relieved expression, full of giddiness, makes Crowley’s heart flutter. Crowley resists the urge to just lay out his feelings right then and there, ease the terrible ache in his chest.

“Did you forget, angel? I am a demonic creature after all. I’m meant to lurk. But, on the other hand, I brought wine,” Crowley says charmingly, handing Aziraphale the bottle.

“Oh, it’s a Valle Pradinhos, what a treat! In that case, do come in,” Aziraphale laughs a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Crowley’s sadness melts away. They were going to have a wonderful evening together. He was sure of it.

“I missed you so,” says Aziraphale under his breath, and Crowley isn’t sure if he heard that right, won’t let himself hope. In a moment, Aziraphale leads him to the couch.

“Please sit down, my dear. I actually would like to prepare a meal, it has been on my mind for a few days. Something to treat you with. Say, would you enjoy it? I’m not one for cooking for myself, but I could definitely try for two.”

“I’m famished,” Crowley mirrors Aziraphale’s warm smile. In a moment he does will himself to actually feel that hunger inside of his stomach, it’s always the polite thing to do. At the same time, he makes sure his mind doesn’t linger into undesirable places: the fantasy of Aziraphale greeting him on the porch after a long day of demonic work, of Aziraphale worrying about him and indulging him with delicious meals and then giving him massages that ease the pain in his shoulders, of Aziraphale missing him terribly when he’s away, of Aziraphale being his to love and kiss… Crowley shakes his head.

“I’ll get started on it then. You don’t have to help me, I’d rather try to do it alone.”

“Can I just stay in the kitchen then?” Crowley asks, unable to deny himself the pleasure of watching Aziraphale cook.

“You can even lurk, my dear friend,” Aziraphale smiles, leading Crowley to the small kitchenette in the back of the bookshop.

Crowley sits on one of the tall bar stools, observing the way Aziraphale puts on an apron and takes out the ingredients from the fridge, preheats the oven, all the while humming some soft tune to himself. It’s a sight one wishes to behold more often, he decides.

“Actually, Crowley, could you help me, please? I left my recipe book on the desk in the shop. It’s a little red one. Would you be a darling and bring it to me?” Aziraphale asks absentmindedly, taking out pots and pans from overhead compartments, picking out a few fresh basil leaves from the potted plant on his counter.

Crowley grumbles something rude in response, annoyed that he’s denied the view, but obeys, he always obeys in the end, and goes back into the shop to fetch the book.

He immediately sees a red tiny notebook on the desk, but there’s also another one slightly tucked away, so Crowley decides to reach for that one too, just in case. He wouldn’t want to make the same journey twice. In this movement, he accidentally knocks down an encrusted box on top of another pile of books with his elbow.

“Shit, shit,” Crowley mutters, as he fails to catch the box. It’s already falling down and what seems like a thousand tiny papers, a million scribbles scatter around the floor. Crowley falls down to his knees, rushes to collect the loose papers and put them all back before Aziraphale could come and reprimand him, but suddenly he sees his own name on one of the little scraps.

_“He’s a demon, and I’m an angel, and I know it should be wrong, I know it’s sinful, but... it’s Crowley.”_

His eyes rush through the notes, picking up scattered phrases, and his heart starts beating wildly with the realization that this is definitely Aziraphale’s handwriting, he would have recognized it anywhere.

_“I’m so afraid of what comes next, I want it desperately, I ache for it, long for his touch, and yet I’m terrified of it. Of hurting him.”_

_“They are capable of anything. They will destroy him.”_

_“Whenever Crowley comes by these days I feel so overwhelmed, I have to push him away, I need to breathe, there is no way that he can’t feel how much I feel for him...”_

_“Besides, I value our friendship most of all. I couldn’t live without it. I can’t risk it for more.”_

_“Oh but his lips, and that gentle smile will drive me crazy one day, I’ll be damned if I don’t kiss him soon, don’t taste those pretty lips.”_

_“...That book became the most precious in all my collection. I would trade my Shakespeare’s first edition in a heartbeat for that wonderful book of flowers. I’m giddy and lightheaded at the thought that Crowley thought of me, when he saw it. Even if it was just for a split-second.”_

_“Needed him to call me, wanted to hear his voice, but was too drunk, wouldn’t have risked it. Might have said something stupid.”_

_“I don’t even know why I asked for that other room, I just panicked, I regretted it the second I saw the expression on his face”_

_“I know he’s waiting, oh how patiently he’s waiting, and I love him, I love him to pieces, but this last step feels like staring into the abyss. There is no going back.”_

_“It’s scary how much he makes me feel, my dear Crowley.”_

There’s the sharp noise of footsteps and Crowley comes back to reality, his hands shaking furiously as he tries to gather the papers, his heart a mess, and his brain is melting from what he has just read, and Aziraphale is already there anyway, his eyes widening in shock.

“Crowley! What? You can’t…” Crowley sees Aziraphale’s horrified expression, and rushes to stand up, simultaneously trying to shove the little papers back in the box and mumbling an apology.

“Angel, angel, I’m sorry, sorry, it just fell down when I was...”

Aziraphale turns to face away from him, his face red, with anger or humiliation, Crowley doesn’t know.

“I cannot look. Please, just, go away. Right now I’m so… I can’t...”

“It was an accident, angel, I swear, I promise,” Crowley has finally managed to gather the notes and put them back in the little box.

“Just go. Please, just. Please go,” Aziraphale begs, softly and quietly, and that tone breaks Crowley’s heart.

“Fine. I’ll go. If you need me to go, I’ll go. But let me just. Let me show you something,” Crowley says, seeking for gentle words, as if he’s taming a wild animal, and reaches in his jeans pocket, takes out his phone, fumbles while unlocking it. 

He hands Aziraphale the phone, full of those unsent messages. Baring his heart and soul.

But Aziraphale doesn’t take it, arms folded protectively over his chest, and still unable to look Crowley in the eyes, staring away at one spot on the floor. So Crowley quietly puts the phone on the desk, and then grabs his coat and leaves, the bookshop bell ringing behind him.

* * *

It has been three days and three nights, three spins of the Earth on its axis, the longest in Crowley’s life, and he’s actually had quite a long life: been there since before time existed. After rushing out of the bookshop, he walked and walked around the chilly London streets, trying to make sense of what he had accidentally discovered, of Aziraphale, of his most private fears and wishes, of what it might mean now.

He doesn’t even take his Bentley, knowing full well the car’s ability to read his thoughts and mock him by blasting random music with terribly fitting lyrics.

He just needs Aziraphale to understand how much the angel means to him. He needs Aziraphale to know how desperately he needs them to be together, to finally sigh contented in each other’s arms, knowing that it was always meant to be, the most effable plan of all Her plans. He needs Aziraphale to know that he’s terrified too, but he’s willing to take the risk together, to cut the last of ties with heaven and hell, to devote themselves to one another, because that is what Crowley needs above else, and he knows Aziraphale needs it just as desperately.

At that thought, he wanted to round the block and go back to the shop, but then decided against it. Aziraphale would probably need the whole night to read those text messages and make his decision.

Truth is, Crowley was tired of making the first steps and wearing his heart on his sleeve. He gave Aziraphale his thoughts from the last five years, and laid it all out in the open, and it was Aziraphale’s turn to either accept it or to break it into pieces. He could not hide anymore behind ambiguity or secrecy. Everything was out in the open.

On the third day it starts raining. Crowley feels the mood resonate with him. He didn’t know if it was actually his fault in bringing such a goddawful weather around. But Aziraphale hasn’t contacted him in any way, and Crowley starts to worry.

He wants to tuck himself back into bed, and never leave it again, just be immersed in the warm, soft cocoon of the duvet and forget about all of his anxieties gnawing at his insides with insistent questions.

Why hasn’t he called? Why hasn’t he come? Did he read the messages or completely ignored them? Was he still angry about Crowley reading his notes? Why is it taking him so long to reach out?

Almost drifting off to sleep again, suddenly Crowley hears someone ringing the doorbell.

In no time, Crowley is on his feet, and rushes into the hallway. He opens the door quickly, hope already digging its sharp claws into his heart.

“Aziraphale, what…?”

Aziraphale is standing there, soaked from head to toe, shivering. It is indeed pouring outside. Crowley notices Aziraphale holding the phone, Crowley’s phone, in his hand.

“Crowley,” he breathes out, as if surprised to see him. He looks dazed, unsure.

“Come in, please, you’re wet,” Crowley’s instincts kick in, because he has never actually seen Aziraphale so disheveled, and he has seen some very different Azirapahales throughout millennia. His bowtie is undone, coat a mess and Crowley rushes to take it off. He conjures a towel in midair and dries Azirapahle’s hair, simultaneously leading him in the direction of the bathroom.

Coat and vest gone, Crowley almost reaches for the shirt, but thankfully catches himself on time. Hell, he shouldn’t be undressing Aziraphale completely, should he? He pauses for a moment and looks into those deep eyes, which follow his every movement.

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” Aziraphale rushes to say, with determination, apologizing from the heart. Crowley can’t stand those words, he fumbles with his hands, and busies himself with the task of removing that soaked bowtie from Aziarphale’s soft neck.

But Aziraphale seeks his eyes with his own, looking at him so sincerely, so openly. His hair a complete mess from the rain, plastered to his forehead and making him look younger, more vulnerable.

“Crowley, darling,” he begins, intent on telling Crowley everything he feels, voice trembling with emotion, and eyes full of tears, looking at Crowley with hope, “Please hear me out. I was the one who always told you no, even though I always wanted to say yes. I was scared. I’m constantly scared of what they’ll do to us, to you - when they find out. I was scared to feel, even, and I denied myself the truth for the longest time. All I had was a pen and paper to let out how I felt, over the years. And… I’m sorry that I put you through too much pain. Truly.”

Crowley shook his head, dismissing the ache of all these years in a single gesture. He went to say something, but Aziraphale put a finger to his mouth, shushing him, as if to say ‘please let me finish talking’. He let out a deep, shaky breath, and continued.

“I’m sorry I was so scared, but I’m not scared anymore, Crowley. Not when I know that you… Will be there too. Every step of the way. That you understand the stakes.” Aziraphale looks resolute, and it’s as if the whole world shakes under their feet with the force of his determination.

“Angel,” Crowley can’t breathe, can’t say anything, “Did you really… Do you...”

Aziraphale reaches out, and takes Crowley’s hand in his own, strokes a thumb on his palm, and Crowley feels armies of goosebumps forming on his own skin. Just the simplest of touches is leaving him undone. Aziraphale is so beautiful in that moment, it knocks the breath out of Crowley, his wonderful words fill Crowley up to his very core.

He finally finds the courage to lift his eyes and stare right at his angel. Wants to say something, anything, but there are no words left, just the two of them, and all those words that were written and rewritten in text messages, notebooks, diaries, those words secretly whispered at night, those words confined in the cages of their bodies, spilling out by the sheer force of emotion in that look between them, Crowley’s yellow-sand eyes of the shore meeting the high tide of Aziraphale’s ocean-blue invasion.

“Crowley, please, I need to feel you close,” Aziraphale sighs out finally, and it sounds like the ply of a wounded animal, and Crowley realizes that he has been frozen on the spot, unable to say anything, and Aziraphale must feel self-conscious, but Crowley simply cannot stand it, overwhelmed by Aziraphale, his eyes, his words, his love, finally, finally there in the open.

And Crowley reaches out too, and hugs him close, slides up to him, burying his head in the angel’s soft neck, breathing his scent in.

“You have no idea… How long...” he chokes out, unable to say anything, whole monologues and speeches accumulated for millennia stuck in his throat. His arms envelop the angel’s soft shoulders, touching everywhere they couldn’t before, mapping out this mortal body, and feeling the love radiating from it.

And then, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s head in his own, softly strokes his cheek, and with a shaky breath kisses him full on the mouth, like a man who has been starving for it for thousands of years, like a tired traveler reaching for the well with his dry lips, like the sun that kisses the Earth with each new sunrise, drawing the shadows away.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispers against his mouth, between languid, hot kisses, even though he doesn’t need to - everything is screaming around him with how much love he has inside.

_‘Oh, so this is what it’s like to kiss the love of your life,’_ thinks Crowley, and in the next moment he is gone, because Aziraphale’s hand has found its way into Crowley’s hair, and is tugging at it, bringing him immense pleasure.

And Crowley kisses him again and again, sighing with relief and with giddy, overwhelming love.

“I love you Aziraphale, I love you, I love you,” he cannot stop saying it, now the confession is flooding out of him, and he’s finally free. There are tears in his eyes, but he won’t admit it, he will deny it later, that in that moment he was so happy that he cried.

And Aziraphale tugs him even closer by his shirt and makes a gesture with his head towards the shower, and Crowley’s heart skips a beat. They’re leading each other like two blind men: belts removed, buttons undone and clothes shed and tossed on the floor, their bodies like magnets, unable to stay away, unable to move away, needing to be even closer.

Crowley turns on the shower. He loves the way the hot water soaks Aziraphale, runs down his face and shoulders, down his chest and warms him up, almost hugs him in comfort, making the cold go away, a perfect representation of his own feelings wrapping around the angel.

He reaches for more kisses, gets under the water too. He enjoys the hot stream soaking up his hair, massaging his sore muscles, making the tension go away.

They kiss and kiss until they’re breathless, holding each other close, and Crowley kisses the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, and Aziraphale can’t help but giggle a little at that. And that sound - he only ever heard it after he told some kind of joke that Aziraphale would find _wrong but oh so funny_ \- is enough to switch something on in Crowley. 

He can’t help but push Aziraphale against the tiles, and go at his neck, licking and kissing and biting a little with his fangs.

“Crowley, yes, please,” Aziraphale begs, suddenly unable to contain himself, hips stuttering on their own accord, trying to find Crowley and push against him, push into his hot flesh.

Aziraphale wants him, is begging for him, he needs him. Crowley can’t process what he is feeling right now, he would combust if he were to analyze it, so he switches onto basic animal instincts - to feel Aziraphale close, to kiss him, to have him right now.

Crowley can sense it mentally with his demon powers, but now he has a whole evidence of how much desire there is in Aziraphale, his whole body pushing against Crowley, his cock, already rock hard seeking Crowley’s thigh to hump against him. He desperately needs to relieve at least a tiny speck of that immense tension. Aziraphale’s fingers are scratching at his back, his eyes are full-blown with lust, and if that’s not the most beautiful thing Crowley has seen throughout all the millennia, he doesn’t know what is.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moans right into his ear, as Crowley holds him against the wall, keeping him in place to stop the writhing. He reaches down between their soaked mortal bodies, to take them both in hand.

“I won’t… last very long,” Aziraphale whines, as Crowley begins pumping them furiously, deliciously fast, as the water from the shower continues to soak them both, envelop them in the warmth and fog up the shower walls.

“Me too,” Crowley manages, trying to remember every second of this, of his angel, coming undone under his hand, of their cocks sliding together and Aziraphale’s hips chasing his, of the rhythm speeding up, of his lips kissing Crowley everywhere he can reach, loving him messily. He knows he is moaning loudly, and Aziraphale too, is making those delicious _ah ah ah_ noises against his damp skin that are better than what Crowley has ever imagined.

“Want this forever,” Crowley’s other hand digs into Aziraphale’s soft, plump hip, no doubt leaving bruises, holding him close. He can already imagine those same bruises from when he will hold Aziraphale while being inside him, claiming him as his own, and this thought brings him even closer to the edge.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale begs shamelessly, and squeezes his ass, “I want to see you come, please, come for me, my boy.”

And he does, forehead banging a little against the tile right next to Aziraphale’s, eyes shutting with pleasure, and hot streaks of come painting them both, the sweet release overwhelming, ferocious. Aziraphale comes too at the sight of that, mouth parting, and emitting such a wonderful noise that Crowley is willing to do anything just to hear it again and again and again.

Coming down from the high, Crowley can’t seem to part from Aziraphale, still hugging his angel close, leaning into him. His angel - his to hold, and kiss, and love. 

“We could’ve been doing this for centuries,” Crowley breathes hard against Aziraphale, as the angel washes them both, stroking delicately at the oversensitive skin.

“Oh darling, we will,” Aziraphale smiles mischeviously, the bastard, “This is the one pleasure I have denied myself for too long. I want to discover it all with you.”

Crowley’s heart softens at that, at Aziraphale’s contented eyes, at his beautiful smile that never failed to melt him whole, and makes him want to take his angel to bed and start all over, slower this time, to discover him gradually, kiss every inch of him, give him all the love he has to give.

And soon enough they’re laying in bed, dried after the shower, warm and cozy. Aziraphale is wearing a fluffy robe, half undone, his soft belly poking out, and Crowley only has a towel wrapped around his hips. They’re eating dessert, just conjured out of thin air. Not as much as eating, as feeding it with spoonfuls to each other and laughing quietly to themselves, unable to stop feeling this overwhelming, divine happiness. 

“Will you get a phone then?” Crowley asks something that lingers on his mind, eating up another spoon of cheesecake, “So we can message each other, instead of being disconnected?”

And there is more to those words, and Aziraphale knows it too. He smiles. 

“I would love that, my dear boy, but you will have to teach me the ways.”

Crowley mirrors his smile, and hums something to himself, contented and calm, for the first time in centuries.

“What would you have written now in that phone of yours?” asks Aziraphale tentatively, his smile half-mischievous, half-curious.

And suddenly Crowley reaches his hand out and starts tracing words on Azirphale’s thighs with his fingers, making him squirm.

_I could have waited another 6000 years for you, but I’m glad I don’t have to._

He looks at Aziraphale, and loves the way his angel smiles at him.

“I’m glad too,” echoes the angel, leaning closer to his demon, dessert forgotten, and kisses rediscovered, like they will be a thousand times more.


End file.
